


Ending the Drought

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Linguistics, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just after the God Complex. It's been awhile for the three of them, and they need each other. Now.</p>
<p>Written for the Golden Oldies Porn Battle; the original prompt was posted in Porn Battle XIII. The prompt is Eleventh Doctor/Amy Pond/Rory Williams, petrichor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ending the Drought

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you to Best Beloved for posting these at the battle site.

It's their first trip together after the minotaur in space. Amy thinks the Doctor's just picked them up again for the sex, an impression not damaged in the least by the fierce hug he pulls both of them into immediately. Not that either of them mind in the slightest. “Hello, Ponds,” he says softly before pulling them into the TARDIS. 

“Been a while, has it?” Amy snarks—she probably shouldn't, but she can't help herself. She never could, come to think of it. How long has it been for him? “Haven't gotten the TARDIS to turn back into a woman?” Which reminds her... “Doctor, what sort of word is petrichor, anyway?” 

“Greek, ish,” he begins as Rory helps him out of his blazer. Her husband shoots her a look which she adroitly interprets to mean “you've gotten him talking, and now he'll never shut up; did you want a shag or not?” She's had a startling amount of practice with that one. “It's a portmanteau, which is a word you get by smashing two other words together; funny story about Charles Dodgson, by the way—ulp!” Their teeth only click a little as Amy grabs him by his untied bowtie and pulls him into a kiss.

“Doctor,” Amy tells him, tone perfectly playful, “stay on course.” She sneaks a look at Rory as he shucks off his long-sleeved tee. She likes the way they trail clothes through the TARDIS like breadcrumbs, like the way the Doctor's mind would thread through a conversation, topic to topic. She rather suspects the TARDIS does, too, judging by the way that they only ever find a bedroom in the nick of time.   
“Yes, Amelia,” he calls obediently. Mercy, he thinks, as she leans against a railing to tug off her boots and pad barefoot ahead of them. “Petri-, of course, is stone.”

“And ichor is the blood of the gods,” Rory notes. Been there, done that, learned a few dead languages. “But petrichor's not an ancient Greek word,” he points out as he fiddles with his belt.

“That's the rain, then?” Amy asks as her hands work their way down the Doctor's shirt, unbuttoning it.

“Arguably,” the Doctor says, face starting to flush. God, she loves him like this. “Or it could really refer to the oil secreted by some plants during droughts. Or maybe the...by-products...of bacteria in the soil.” He gulps again as Amy's left hand steals lower, fingernails grazing him through the cloth. “It all works down into the dust and gets released,” as if on cue, she unzips his fly, and his erection can't help but pop out, “with the rain.” 

Rory, naked now, catches them up. “I really hope you didn't mean what I think you mean when you said by-products,” he mutters, but the other two are two busy admiring to complain—up until the point where the Doctor's trousers slide off his skinny ass to the floor.

“Don't pick them up,” Amy orders lazily. She turns the next bend, just where they can't see, and steps out of her knickers. “Come along, boys,” she calls back, and flings her undergarments at them. That gets them moving, she thinks with a grin, and she darts into the nearest room, shutting the door behind her, hoping for a bed, or at least a convenient flat surface (and not, say a swamp). 

She grins with her luck just as her boys dash towards her—she's stumbled into a dusty study with an overstuffed sofa, arms at just about the right height. “Yah!” she cries as the Doctor flails past her to flop into a gangly mess on the couch. “Hell-o!”

“Speak for yourself, Amelia,” the Doctor says, breathless. “You're overdressed.” Rory—ever obliging Rory, though this can't really be a hardship—is there to help, tugging her shirt over her head from behind before unhooking her bra. He cups her breasts with his hands and presses gentle kisses to curve of her ear as she wriggles out of her skirt, making her pale pink nipples bounce seductively. The Doctor's openly drooling between sentences now. “Anyway, I was coming to a point.”

“You certainly are,” she teases, bending over to let one gentle finger run up his cock.

The Doctor coughs, all of his seemingly-limitless brainpower consumed by the mere fact of Amy Pond's hand braced on his knee, of Rory Pond standing behind her with a hungry look on his face, already inside of her, and he starts to forget himself and his pace, reaching out almost involuntarily with his feet for Rory as his release starts percolating in his gut and the flesh of his trembling thighs. “The point is that you can reduce it to chemicals, or to words coming together in a way they probably shouldn't, and you'll be right.” Amy quirks an eyebrow at him, her other hand cupping his balls. His voice continues to speed up. “But if you do, you'll miss the fact that all of us—lonely god, human, earth itself—need the water—please, Pond!” he begs, and at that she draws him into her mouth. He moans with relief. Petrichor, he thinks, dust after rain. Crops after the drought. Life after death. The chance to keep going. He looks down at them with ageless eyes. Renewal.


End file.
